Нил Шустерман - The Shadow Club

“All right!” he said. “I admit I told Greene, but I didn’t do anything else!”

“Liar!” I said.

“And I didn’t do it to be mean! Now leave me alone!”

“Then why did you tell him?”

He didn’t answer me.

“WHY DID YOU TELL HIM?” I pushed him. The door to the phone booth flew open, and Tyson flew out, falling to the ground. “Why did you tell him?” I screamed. He didn’t answer. He got up and ran down the hall as quickly as he could. I watched him run, brimming with anger. I couldn’t remember having ever hated anyone as much; not even Austin.

Then I began to yell, hoping everyone left in school heard me.

“Bed wetter!” I yelled. “Bed wetter! Tyson pees in his bed!” It echoed through the halls and the sound lingered long after Tyson had burst through the school’s front doors.

I shouldn’t have gone to track practice that day. I should have just run home and buried myself in my homework—or better yet, buried myself in my pillow and hidden like an ostrich until this whole thing passed over. That’s what I should have done, but I didn’t. Instead, I ran out to the field to be with the track team, and that was a mistake, because, as everyone knows, bad luck comes in threes. First on that fateful day came the fish tank, then Vera’s bike, and then came the nastiest run-in I ever had with Austin Pace.

By the time I arrived at practice, Austin was leading the stretching exercises, and Coach Shuler was nowhere to be seen. I was about ten minutes late, and it was never good to be late for practice.

“Well, lookie here,” said Austin. “The Gopher finally decided to show up!”

“Hi, Gopher,” said Martin Bricker. Kids didn’t even say it to be mean anymore. They just said it like it was my name.

“Give me twenty push-ups for being late, Gopher.” I dropped and gave him twenty. When I was done, Austin had the whole team sit down, as he opened a large carton that was on the ground.

“Here are our team uniforms,” he said. Everyone was pleased to hear that, and for a few minutes I was glad I had decided to go to practice that day. “Coach Shuler will be out in a minute with the team sweats.”

Austin opened the box, and began to hand them out. “Miller,” he said, tossing Greg Miller his top and matching shorts. This was the first year that the team actually got new sweats and uniforms that had each kid’s name on them. Some said it was because the track team deserved it, but most knew it was because Austin’s father had made a big donation to the team.

“Bricker!” yelled Austin, as he tossed Martin’s shirt and shorts to him. I waited patiently, and he finally got around to mine.

“Mercer,” he said, throwing me my uniform. It felt good to hold the brand-new uniform of the team; that smooth feel of the light, colorful material, and that new smell it had. It reminded me that our first meet was coming up soon, and I could hardly wait! My times were getting better, and although they weren’t quite as fast as Austin’s, they were pretty good. Now, to make it complete, I had a uniform with my name on it. I felt like a real runner, and for a minute it made me forget about my other troubles.

I couldn’t wait to try on the shirt, so although it was a bit chilly, I took off my shirt and was about to try the new one on, when I caught a glimpse of the bright red name written across the back.

It said

I sat there for a few moments, letting it sink in. Gopher. My team shirt said Gopher.

“Austin,” I said. “This better not be mine.” I threw it back at his face, waiting to see what he would say. He caught it, and looked at it.

“Nope. Gopher. That’s you.” He threw it back at me. I clenched my hands into fists, and gritted my teeth.

“It says Gopher?” asked one of the seventh graders. “Let me see, let me see!” He grabbed it, and I grabbed it back.

“My name is Mercer, not Gopher!” I threw the shirt at Austin’s face again. He caught it.

“Didn’t you want Gopher on your shirt? That’s how everyone knows you.” He threw it back in my face.

“No!” I said. I would never wear it. Never.

“Well, it’s too late,” said Austin. “The shirts and sweats have already been made up.”

“That’s written on my sweats, too?”

“Of course.”

That did it. I dropped the shirt, and lunged at him. How could he do that? Not only did he humiliate me, but he was trying to force me to humiliate myself by wearing that word on my shirt. I swung my fist, missing his face by less than an inch. I swung again, but by then a dozen hands were on me, holding me back. “Let go of me!” I screamed, but the team just held me and wouldn’t let me get a clear shot at Austin. I struggled and kicked but they wouldn’t let me go.

“Look at him,” somebody yelled. “He’s fighting like Tyson fights!” That only made me struggle harder. Then, out of nowhere, Coach Shuler appeared and pulled me out of the hands of the others, shaking me so hard that my brain rattled.

“What do you think you’re doing, Jared? Stop it! Stop it now!” My head hurt from the shake-up, and my arms went limp. “This is a team, Jared,” he said, “and you had better remember that. You don’t start fights with your team captain. I don’t care what your differences are, you don’t fight with him.”

“But...”

“Did you hear me? I said that you don’t fight with Austin. Is that clear?”

I stood there, catching my breath. I wouldn’t give him as much as a nod. “He put ’Gopher’ on my uniform!”

The coach turned to Austin, and Austin shrugged.

“Honest mistake,” Austin said.

“We’ll settle this after practice,” said the coach. That’s when Austin came up to me.

“Now, c’mon,” said Austin, holding out his hand to shake. “Let’s forget about this whole thing, all right?”

I looked at his hand. I have to admit, I almost did it. I thought about shaking Austin’s hand and eating my pride for the sake of the team, but then he said, “C’mon, be a good gopher, and forget about it.”

My hands clenched into fists again. I wouldn’t shake his hand after that—I wouldn’t even stand in the same field with him. I picked up my backpack, shoved my disgusting gopher shirt into it, and I walked. The coach tried to follow, so I ran. I ran to the edge of the field, and kept running, putting as much distance between me and Austin Pace as I could. A moment later I realized that someone was running with me.

“I saw the whole thing.” It was Cheryl. “I think it was awful. Austin’s a real creep.”

Great! The last thing I wanted was for Cheryl to see Austin humiliate me.

“Jared,” called the coach, “let’s talk about this.” But I ignored him.

“What are you doing here, anyway?” I asked her.

“I came to tell you that Vera is all right. She bumped her head, but she’ll be all right.”

It was good to hear, but it didn’t make me feel any better. I ducked through a hole in the fence and into the woods. Cheryl followed. I kept running through the trees, getting scratches on my arms from branches, but still that anger wouldn’t leave.

“Jared, slow down,” said Cheryl. “I can’t keep up with you!”

I stopped. We were far from the field now.

“You know what?” I said. “I hope Tyson was watching and gets Austin next. I hope Tyson pulls a terrible trick so mean that Austin never gets over it, that’s what I hope!”

Cheryl looked at me kind of strange. “You really want that?” she asked.

I thought for a moment, catching my breath. “I don’t know what I want.” It was true. I didn’t know how I felt, or what I wanted. I didn’t even know who to hate anymore: Austin, Tyson, the Shadow Club, or maybe just myself for allowing all this to happen.